“To see if you really liked me. Enough to stick around.”
“But you really hurt me,” Carrie said. “How could you hurt me like that? I can never forget that—you know?”
“I know, baby. I’m sorry,” he said.
When they got back to their house, there was a message on the answering machine from their friend Rock Gibralter, the TV actor. “I’m here,” he said. “Staying with Tyler Kydd. You guys will love him.”
“Is that Tyler Kydd, the actor?” Mr. Big asked.
“Sounds like it,” Carrie said, aware that she was trying to sound as if she couldn’t have cared less.
PROMETHEUS BOUND
“That was just wonderful,” Stanford said. He and Suzannah were sitting on the couch in front of the fire. Suzannah was smoking a cigarette. Her fingers were slim and elegant, ending in long, perfectly manicured red nails. She was wrapped in a black silk Chinese robe. “Thank you, darling,” she said.
“You really are the perfect wife, you know,” Stanford said. “I can’t imagine why you’re not already married.”
“Straight men bore me,” Suzannah said. “Eventually anyway. It always starts off fine, and then they become incredibly demanding. Before you know it, you’re doing everything they want, and you have no life left.”
“We won’t be like that,” Stanford said. “This is perfect.”
Suzannah stood up. “I’m off to bed,” she said. “I want to get up early and ski. Sure you won’t join me?”
“On the slopes? Never,” Stanford said. “But you must promise me one thing. That we have an evening exactly like this one tomorrow night.”
“Certainly.”
“You really are the most wonderful cook. Where did you learn to cook like that?”
“Paris.”
Stanford stood up. “Good night, my dear.”
“Good night,” she said. Stanford leaned forward and gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek. “Until tomorrow,” he said, giving her a little wave as she walked to her room.
A few minutes later, Stanford went to his room. But he did not go to sleep. Instead, he turned on his computer and checked his e-mail. As he had hoped, there was a message for him. He picked up the phone and called a taxi. Then he waited by the window.
When the taxi pulled up, he slipped out of the house. “Caribou Club,” he said to the driver.
And then it was like a bad dream. The taxi took him to a cobblestoned street in the center of town. Stanford walked through a narrow alley lined with tiny shops, then went in a door and down some stairs. A blond woman, who was probably forty but through the miracles of facial plastic surgery and breast implants looked five years younger, was standing behind a wooden podium.
“I’m meeting someone here,” Stanford said. “But I don’t know what his name is.”
The woman looked at him suspiciously.
“I’m Stanford Blatch. The screenplay writer?” he said.
“Yes?” she said.
Stanford smiled. “Did you ever see the movie Fashion Victims?”
“Oh!” the woman said. “I loved that movie. Did you write that?”
“Yes I did.”
“What are you working on now?” she asked.
“I’m thinking about doing a movie about people who have too much plastic surgery,” he said.